I Will No Longer Apologize For My Sexual Appetite

I will not apologize for my appetite. Not anymore.

We make excuses to leave work early and text each other simultaneously that we’ll meet at home. We’re psychically linked, and as always, dying to escape the prison of mundane.

I get there first, rip my clothes off except for my underwear and bra, the one my breasts spill out of. I’m not hiding them, no longer self-conscious about how big they are. I lock eyes with myself in the mirror and shimmy my hips. I transform into soft skin and cherry lace.

My notebooks, slips of paper, and napkins of poetry scatter our apartment, trails of my heart left as an invitation. I spray my rose-scented perfume, every corner of my body an aphrodisiac.

I hear the key in the lock, and I lick my lips. I’m already wet with anticipation. He tosses his keys onto the kitchen table with a force that feels like a prelude. He grabs my hips and lifts me onto the counter, his hands teasing the hem of protective and aggressive. We lock hands. I trace over his fingers, and he shivers under my touch. I guide his hand over to my breasts, and his caress spreads a wildfire across the pit of my stomach, and it’s my turn to shiver.

“Close your eyes,” he demands without another word, only a sly, dimpled smirk. I oblige. After a torturous wait, the edge of a blade slowly traces the lace of my bra and underwear. I bite my lip. The sharp cold grazes along my stomach and circles my thighs. With bated breath, I wait for what’s next. The blade seduces my clit, and I slow grind against it. He doesn’t let me ride it out, and tears off my bra and underwear, throbbing to be inside me. I let out a shrill gasp, and I don’t stop him. I don’t shield my body and beg him to turn off the light. I let myself be seen. Fully. In my naked glory.

He presses himself inside me, and I swear, I’m no longer on the counter. I’m in the goddamn sky; drunk off his whisky-soaked lips – tongue tangled in mine, each kiss synchronized to the thrusting of our bodies. I wrap my legs around his waist, begging to be saved again and again. I’m not sweating off my usual shame. There’s only us and the heat of our heavy breaths.

The orgasm isn’t as much about the sex as it is the rebirth, his flesh my answered prayer. The euphoria of being unclean but not dirty, not in my eyes, not anymore. The exhilaration of being on top lifts me higher than I’ve ever been, completely in control. Of him. This night. My life. I’m no longer afraid of heights.

We melt deeper and deeper into each other’s sweat-soaked skin, and he pours his holy water over me. I burn. Oh, how I fucking burn. The firestorm between my legs, once my greatest sin, is now my new religion.

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